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Houston, Tex., has a house encased in apparently 50,000 beer cans. Created for fun by late local resident John Milkovisch in the late 1960s, it's now a landmark classed as art. (David Bateman)

Not far from the Alamo Mission, tourists take a canal boat tour of the restaurant-lined river walk in San Antonio, Tex. (David Bateman)

A deer waits for the inevitable hordes of tourists to arrive close to 6 a.m. at the south rim of the Grand Canyon near Flagstaff, Ariz. (David Bateman)

Sea lions laze on the beach at La Jolla Cove in San Diego, Calif., just a short drive north from San Diego Zoo. (David Bateman)

A car unleashes its suspension, bouncing through the Mission District of San Francisco, Calif. (David Bateman)

Snow sits 4.5 metres high at the side of the Rim Drive into Crater Lake, Ore. The glistening body of water was created by the collapse of a volcano, Mount Mazama, to form what is known as a caldera. (Louise Duffy)

The view upon leaving the twisting, turning slopes of the 2,743-metre Mount Lemmon in Coronado National Forest near Tucson, Ariz. (David Bateman)

Still, the freedom to go wherever, whenever is thrilling. I gather my weight in potato chips and hit the road.

For every World Heritage Site, the U.S. has 10 outlandish roadside mini-attractions, such as the world’s biggest chandelier in Cleveland, Ohio’s Playhouse Square. It’s exactly what a Midwest city suffering from heavy industry decline needs — a giant outdoor light fitting.

A few kilometres east is the manicured home where Jerry Siegel created Superman. Neighbours’ roofs are collapsing and Black Lives Matter murals are a reminder segregation still exists.

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Next, I visit Cincinnati, Ohio’s American Sign Museum, a visual history of the commercialism that conquered the globe in a neon plague, from the faint glow of mom-and-pop diners to buzzing bulbs of behemoths, such as McDonald’s.

To the south, monolithic Houston, Tex., has a house of 50,000 beer cans. A gust and they clatter and ding like a dulcet conference of wind chimes. No wonder the home opposite is for sale.

I’m surprised by the depth of Texas culture beyond kitschy, redneck stereotypes. On San Antonio’s leafy river walk, uniformed airmen celebrating graduation wave to tourists in canal boats.Downtown markets are a flurry of faded cowboy boots, black San Antonio Spurs jerseys and a rainbow of striking prayer flags.

Sixteen kilometres pass. Another sign. “The Thing — the mystery of the desert.”

The road is empty and nondescript except for these ads. Sixteen more kilometres. “What is the Thing?”

The déjà vu is in overdrive. Finally, “The Thing — next exit.”

By keeping “The Thing” a secret, you can begin to understand my frustration, taunted for 400 kilometres of lonely highway by the apex of head-scratching roadside attractions.

Further north is Bedrock City, a dilapidated Flintstones’ theme park last popular sometime in the stone age. Yabba dabba do visit for five minutes. A sign says “the brave ride free” — they don’t, it’s $5 (U.S.), but it’s good value for the enthralling absurdity.

Now for a bigger, bolder, adult theme park — Las Vegas. Staying at the Bellagio penthouse, I try rivalling The Hangover movie. No tiger appears in my room but I do meet former Canadian prime minister Stephen Harper at comedian Jerry Seinfeld’s show. Unfortunately, what happens in Vegas . . .

And I do brush with semi-dangerous wildlife, a baby alligator, outside New Orleans, La. A sixth-generation Lafitte, La., native known only as Capt. Randy motors through Bayou swampland.

“I didn’t go to no school. My education was out here,” he says, a hearty laugh accompanying his soothing drawl. “I’d rather deal with the snakes here than in the city.”

It’s always more appealing to see animals in their natural habitat. Not far from San Diego Zoo in California, sleepy sea lions kindly share La Jolla Cove’s beach, and the odd ice cream cone.

Up the Pacific coast in San Francisco, cars bounce their suspension through the Mission District between walls of lucha-libre wrestling masks and eclectic southeast Asian restaurants. It’s like a kids’ colouring book brought to life. Sometimes they go outside the lines, but that’s OK.

Reaching Oregon, I might be growing up. I shun big-city bars for nature. Snow is piled 4.5 metres roadside at Crater Lake. Peering over frosty treetops near avalanche warnings, I gaze at the peaceful water formed by a collapsed volcano. The next day, I go whale-watching in 30C heat, forget sunscreen and return looking like an embarrassed lobster. Scratch that growing up thing.

No sight, not even Yosemite National Park’s waterfalls and Big Sur, Calif.’s ocean panorama, compare to the Grand Canyon. I wake at 3 a.m. to reach the south rim by sunrise. The cold blackness lifts and the sky bursts fiery orange and whirling blues.

Wide-eyed, a Japanese tourist and I look at each other and knowingly exhale. Simultaneously, like we’re in a sitcom, our heads turn to a commotion behind us. A frenzied group, including our partners, are looking the opposite direction from the most spectacular view because a deer is grazing metres away. We stand chuckling, neither of us able to understand the others’ accent, united in incredulity.

Just like people at the Grand Canyon, the U.S. can be perplexing. That’s why it’s road-trip utopia. It’s not always logical but it’s never boring. The only constant from day to day, place to place, is someone trying to add bacon to my meal.

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